His Blood, God's Tears
by Monsieur Mimi
Summary: Farfarello crucifies himself in an attempt of hurting God, contains spoilers for episode 'Schuld'


This is my first fanfic ever so it's really bad. I'm only 12 so don't expect too much! I had this dream where Farfarello was crucified and I thought it was a really nice image. This contains tons of spoilers for the episode 'Schuld'. And as it's my first ever fanfic, Farfarello is continuously out of character and this story is really bad. Please could you review to give me tips? ^^; This story is rated PG for slight gore and Farfarello's intolerance to God.  
  
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The darkness wrapped around every corner like a living being. It snuck into shadows and twisted into the light. Everything was darkness, and darkness was everything. Even the light from the sun, blocked from the windows, appeared to be malicious and cruel. Echoes crept from wall to wall, echoes of silence and unheard voices.  
  
Across the large ceiling hung a large crucifix. It hung, life-size, supported by bolts and wires. Jesus lay upon it, his face calm, and peaceful. A carved lie. Nails were imbedded into his palms, yet no blood flew from his stone body. A lying portrait.  
  
The yellow eye looked up at this and watched it with caution, and curiosity. Was this the face of the being that had killed his family? It looked so calm and peaceful, and he was unsure if it was capable of knowing suffering. The suffering that this carved representation had put upon him. He remembered the cold fingers, the blood upon the floor, the angel tapestry wrapped around a cold body-  
  
"Jei! The one who killed your family. was you!"  
  
Her voice stabbed into a dark place in his mind. His fingers trembled, yet he felt nothing. No fear, or dread. Only confusion. He lifted his hand before his one eye, the other cloaked in its black patch. His hand was so pale, like death, like snow. Small red cuts aligned it, but he felt no pain, he felt no blood.  
  
The long blade was thrust through her chest. In an ironic sense it would be comical. This plump and often cheerful priest, in such a tragic situation. She gazed at him, amazed and shocked. But she struggled to get up, even though she knew that she would not last much longer. She gripped the blade to stop it going in deeper into her chest.  
  
Jei  
  
He felt the blade in his palm, in his hand. It was not there, yet he could feel it in his grip. The cold smoothness of the metal, the handle warm around his fist. How many times had this blade been stained with the blood of God's creatures? How many times had he licked off the blood, in a desperate attempt for revenge on the one true sinner? On this God. But now.  
  
He remembered the words she had spoken to him, as she slowly died. Her voice desperately reaching out to him. Urging him to learn the truth. To remember. He flared with anger. His memory was correct! He would never have killed his family. brought so much suffering to himself. it was absurd for her to say that. But.  
  
"You found out who your real mother was!"  
  
He clenched his fist as if in pain, though of course, he never felt pain. He wasn't that weak, wasn't full of those pitiful weaknesses that God gave his creations. He thought of his mother, her cold and dead body when he had found his family - Then he thought of Ruth. No. He refused to believe. How could he be related to someone who had allied herself with the creature he hated the most?  
  
Letting out a grunt of frustration he fell to his knees, gazing up at the crucifix once more. Flickers of his Christian upbringing rushed across his mind like wild dogs.  
  
He died for the sins of mankind.  
  
How could he?! How could he know the pain that he felt everyday. just because he died for the world. he would never know what it was like to be the one left behind. He had just killed his body, and he would never feel the pain that. he felt.  
  
He slammed his hand down onto one of the wooden benches, so that the wood splintered and cracked. Splinters imbedded themselves in his fist, and blood flowed, but he could not feel it. He ripped the wood until a long plank was in his grasp. He flung it beside him, onto the floor. Then he pulled apart the benches until he got another wooden plank, this time shorter.  
  
Peering up at the crucifix he spoke loudly, clearly:  
  
"I will show you, why you do not understand. I will sacrifice my blood in my hatred for you. Just like you apparently sacrificed your blood for me! For my family!"  
  
His fist slammed into the ground in anger. The sound made echoes around the building.  
  
He turned back to the wreckage of the bench, and managed to salvage some nails. By this time, his fingers were dribbling with scarlet blood, the red trickling into the darkness, splashing onto the floor. Gripping the two planks from earlier, he plunged nails to join them together, hammering the nails down with his blood-soaked fist. Panting, he pulled up the creation: a cross. It was not the seemingly grand and majestic one, like the statue, but it was satisfactory.  
  
He pulled his body upwards grunting in the effort. He pulled the cross so that he was right in front of the statue of Jesus. In his palm he still held three nails. Bitterly, he smiled up at the statue.  
  
"This is my gift to you. don't you like it?"  
  
For a second, the image of Ruth flashed across his mind, the blade sticking from her chest, the blood trickling over the floor.  
  
"Don't do this anymore. Jei!"  
  
He screamed in rage, and tore at his head, clutching his skull, and closing his one remaining eye. Why was she haunting him?! Why did she have to say those things?!  
  
"Leave me alone, bitch!"  
  
He pulled himself so that he was aligned with the cross, and in a mad fury plunged the nail through his feet and onto the cross, attaching himself. He felt nothing, even as the blood seemed to explode from his foot. He laughed as if in pleasure. The throb of his foot was like God's silent scream of agony. It gave more satisfaction to him then anything. God's pain. The blood leaked from his feet and formed a scarlet puddle on the dark floor, like tears leaking from God's eyes. He laughed again.  
  
His fingers found another nail, and he extended his left palm. The nail plunged in, his right hand pushing it in mercilessly. His palm was numb. Blood crept from around the wound and dribbled to the floor. He sighed in satisfaction.  
  
Finally, he outstretched his right palm. His fingers fumbled around with the nail, before it was pointing at the right palm, inches away. He pushed it in, and he felt God scream his final cry of pain. The cross lay on the floor, he was attached to it.  
  
Crucified.  
  
Jei.  
  
Her voice weakly called again. Yet he ignored her.  
  
He smiled.  
  
"My name is not Jei," He said, speaking to the statue of the cross above him.  
  
"My name is Farfarello" 


End file.
